


prelude in e minor (un sospiro)

by aerixlee



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Past Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Piano, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Shiro (Voltron)'s Missing Year, Shiro (Voltron)-centric, a bit beyond canon typical violence, as in they break up in this fic, sheith is NOT prekerb, tagged the warning just in case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 15:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30141360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerixlee/pseuds/aerixlee
Summary: “I’m going to get good,” Keith says. “Seriously. I’ll be playing Mozart when you get back.”“Mm. Twinkle Twinkle Little Star?”______or: Shiro plays the piano.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 39





	prelude in e minor (un sospiro)

**Author's Note:**

> my 10-ish years of piano have culminated in the creation of this fic, and i honestly can't even be mad about it.
> 
> i've been wanting to write something like this for a long, long time now. i found so many songs that i just fell in love with while writing this, and it sucks that i couldn't fit them all into this fic. but the full list of all songs mentioned, in order of appearance, are all linked in the end notes! also, yes, each of the pieces chosen for this fic are Emotionally Significant and contain lots of metaphor ;))
> 
> i honestly don't even know how i got this idea. i was just walking past the piano in my home at like midnight, and suddenly i had a whole fic taking shape in my head. and then i found myself listening to piano music at like two am, so that was great.
> 
> no, actually. it was seriously great. i love all of the songs i've chosen for this one, and i really hope you go and listen to at least a few of them once you're done reading!! they're all absolutely gorgeous.
> 
> enjoy <3

“Play Prelude in E Minor for me? Before you go?”

“You’re making it sound like I’m going to be gone forever, _ojiisan,”_ Shiro laughs, nudging his grandfather’s shoulder lightly. “Besides, you know I’m no good anymore.”

His grandfather scoffs. “I’m an old man, Takashi,” he says dryly. “It isn’t about the music. It’s about who plays it.”

“Cheesy,” teases Shiro. He shrugs, cracking his knuckles. “But I’ll play it for you.”

“Thank you,” says his grandfather quietly, and Shiro pretends not to hear how his voice breaks just slightly.

He butchers it. Neither of them care.

Shiro’s grandfather gives him a copy of the sheet music to take to the Garrison.

“Remember me when you play this one, hm?” he says, pressing it into Shiro’s hands. He smiles, soft and sad. “I’ll be with you every time you listen to it.”

___________________________

It’s several months before Shiro even sees another piano again.

“I’m telling you,” says Adam. They’re in a music store, surrounded by the smell of wood and rosin and dust, one of the chain brands that Shiro remembers his grandfather avoiding like the plague in favor of smaller businesses. “I don’t know a damn thing about this stuff. You’re the only person I know who has some experience.”

“I don’t know anything about clarinet reeds,” Shiro says exasperatedly, for what feels like the fifteenth time that day. “I played the piano, not the clarinet.”

“But you know music,” Adam pleads. He’s looking at Shiro with wide eyes and pouted lips, and it should look absolutely ridiculous, but it ends up being painfully endearing. “Come on, Takashi. Help me out.”

“You’re unbelievable,” mutters Shiro, but he’s smiling, and he knows that Adam can tell. He reaches out, ruffles Adam’s hair affectionately, and grins widely at the indignant yelp he gets in response. “What do you need from me?”

Shiro turns out to be exactly zero help. Adam ends up asking one of the employees instead, and Shiro finds himself wandering the store, bored and ready to leave. He ends up in the keyboard section, trailing his fingers over black and white plastic.

He presses down, delicate. The key responds, a perfect C ringing into the air.

Shiro blinks. He looks around. Adam is still talking to the employee, gesturing with his hands in the way he gets when he’s into something, and Shiro can’t help the small smile that spread over his face. It doesn’t look like they’ll be done anytime soon.

He presses a few more keys, getting a feel for the response time and pressure.

After another moment of hesitation, Shiro plays.

There’s no seat, so Shiro ends up having to bend over awkwardly to compensate for his taller stature. It’s been years since he last played, and this keyboard has larger keys that he’s used to, but the first part of Für Elise is famous and relatively simple enough that he manages to pull it off. It’s odd to play after years of nothing, to shift from real wood with metal strings to plastic and recorded sounds, but the smile that comes across Shiro’s face when he trails off towards the end, just before he can get to the part he doesn’t quite recall, is genuine.

There’s a clattering sound. Shiro looks up, startled, to see Adam staring at him.

“I thought you said you hadn’t played in years,” he says.

“I haven’t,” says Shiro. He looks down at the keyboard again, feeling a faint flush climb into his cheeks. It really has been awhile.

“How much is the keyboard?” Shiro hears Adam ask the employee.

___________________________

When his grandfather passes, Shiro buries his copy of Prelude in E Minor in the middle of a stack of his textbooks.

They play the song at his grandfather’s funeral. Shiro doesn’t dare bring out his copy ever again for fear of ruining it.

But it stays in his head.

___________________________

They don’t buy the keyboard. Not that day, at least. Shiro wants to check if the Garrison even allows it, which Adam reluctantly agrees is probably for the best.

It’s exam time at the Garrison when Shiro finally gives in, just five weeks after his grandfather dies. Adam blames it, jokingly, on the stress, and Shiro thinks he might’ve had the right idea when he walks back into his room at the Garrison with a large rectangular box in his arms. It’s not heavy, but it’s offensively bulky.

In all honesty, this is probably a breakdown. He misses his grandfather, so he buys a keyboard to play piano music. Shiro knows this, but he chooses to ignore it.

“You play?” Matt asks, surprised, when Shiro asks him to help him set it up. He’s not reacting appropriately for someone who’s been essentially barged in on at what is now almost six in the morning, and the red in his eyes combined with his rumpled hair makes Shiro think that he’s been up all night again. “Didn’t know someone as jock as you would go for something like that.”

Shiro rolls his eyes. “My grandpa made me,” he says, doing his best to ignore the pang that shoots through him at the words. He waves his hand vaguely in the air. “Asian thing. Hated it at first, but I miss it. I’m not great, but I’ve got a few years under my belt.”

“Hm,” says Matt. He swings his legs off of his bed, feet planting on the floor with a datapad hanging loosely from his left hand. “Alright, golden boy. I’ll help you set it up, but you’ve got to play a bit for me.”

“I’m mediocre,” Shiro warns, but Matt stands up.

“Don’t want to hear it,” he says, grinning. “You’ll play for me.”

Shiro does. He’s rusty, and it’s not perfect, but he gives a mostly smooth rendition of Claire de lune by Gabriel Fauré, Op. 46, No. 2. If he remembers correctly, it’s supposed to be sung, and he does his best to pour as much emotion into it as he can.

He gets into it. Maybe a little too into it, and his fingers glide across the keys like they never left them in the first place. Even on this cheap, plastic keyboard, a far cry from the Steinway his grandfather was so proud of, Shiro thinks he manages to capture at least a glimmer of the flowing elegance of the piece.

For a moment, just a few minutes, he forgets the stress of the exams bearing down on him, and he gets lost in the music. It’s different from the music store he and Adam were at, because he’s seated this time, letting himself feel each note he plays. He plays delicately, confidently, feels himself beginning to melt into it like fresh snow under a golden sun, and can almost hear his grandfather’s voice in his ear, pointing out where to slow, where to speed up, where he should lightly graze the keys, butterfly wings on flower petals, and where he should flow, clear rivers and rolling waves.

When he’s done, it takes him a moment to come back.

Matt is staring, open-mouthed.

“Holy fuck,” he says. “Mediocre, my fucking _ass,_ Shirogane. I think I’ve died. You’re going to have to resuscitate me.”

Shiro laughs, self-conscious and sheepish, as he rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not as good as I was,” he says, because it’s true, and Matt whaps him lightly on the arm.

“Idiot,” says Matt fondly. “Fucking _idiot._ Should’ve known you would downplay yourself like that. C’mon, give me another one.”

“I’ve got to study,” Shiro says, but it’s weak, and he knows Matt can tell.

“I’ve never seen you look so relaxed before,” Matt says, grabbing Shiro by both shoulders and shaking him lightly. Shiro lets himself be moved, smiling exasperatedly. “You’ve been studying all week, man. One more?”

Shiro plays one more.

When he looks up, it’s to the sight of Matt slumped over on Shiro’s bed, eyes shut and chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. Asleep.

Shiro privately considers this to be the greatest accomplishment of the day.

___________________________

It becomes his favorite way to destress. When things get to be too much, instead of not eating, not sleeping, isolating himself from everyone, he sits down and plays the piano. And it wakes him up, a bit, once he’s finished, and he’ll suddenly become conscious of the ache in his stomach, the dryness of his throat, how he hasn’t responded to Matt’s texts asking him if he wants to join him for lunch, and he’ll get the energy to move again. To take care of himself.

He used to complain all the time about piano when he was younger. It started with complaints about it being boring, then grew into arguments about how it wasn’t going to be useful to him in the future as he got older. His grandfather had held firm through it all, though, over a decade of resisting and encouraging him.

He enjoys it, now. And his grandfather has long since passed, but Shiro thinks that if he were alive, he would be smiling at him, telling him _I told you so._

Shiro wishes he could thank him. Maybe roll his eyes at him.

Anything.

___________________________

Shiro puts on headphones when he plays to avoid disturbing anyone and to dodge the embarrassment of having his mistakes potentially being heard by everyone around him. It’s how he ends up taken thoroughly off guard when Keith comes wandering into his room.

“Nice,” he hears him say when he’s finished playing, and Shiro whirls around so fast, yanking his headphones off of his head, that he nearly hits his leg on the keyboard. Keith is leaning in the doorway, a mildly impressed look on his face. “I didn’t know you could play.”

“Why does everyone always say that?” says Shiro teasingly, but he knows that his face is too flushed with embarrassment for it to have any real meaning to it. “You could hear it?”

“Just a bit,” says Keith. “Kind of leaks a bit from the headphones.”

Shiro knows he actually sounded good, that time, because he’s been working on that particular piece for a few weeks now. It’s different from when he played for Adam or Matt, because Keith was watching when he didn’t know, and he isn’t exactly sure _why_ that makes it feel so much more raw, but it does.

“You’re good,” says Keith. He steps into the room, walking over so he stands with his hands tucked into his pockets beside Shiro. “I’ve always wanted to learn.”

“Really?” Shiro asks, surprised. He gives Keith a smile. “I could teach you.”

Keith goes pink. “I’m no good with things like this,” he mutters, cheeks going redder by the second as his eyes flick away from Shiro’s. “It’d probably be a waste of time for you.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Shiro insists. He unplugs the headphones, turning down the volume of the keyboard to a reasonable level that won’t make anyone barge into the room, demanding that he turn it down, and turns back to Keith. “Come on. I’ll teach you something simple.”

“Like what?” Keith asks warily.

“Chopsticks,” says Shiro.

“Chopsticks,” repeats Keith. “Is that the one that goes…”

He _da da da_ ’s the melody, then looks at Shiro, determined, when he’s finished. He’s wearing the exact expression that he gets when he’s pulled off a maneuver in the simulator that he’s not sure was allowed, uncertain but unflinchingly stubborn.

“Yep,” says Shiro, grinning. “There’s a second part, too, so I’ll do the left hand while you do the right for that one.”

“Teach me the left, too,” demands Keith, a sharp spark in his eyes. “I want to learn.”

___________________________

He and Adam break up. It’s bad.

Really, really bad.

The day after it happens, Shiro takes a sick day. It’s probably not the best idea he’s ever had, especially considering how soon Kerberos is, but he locks himself in his room and sits on the bed, staring at the wall.

His phone buzzes. He doesn’t bother looking at it, powering it off before he can get a glance at the message. He does the same with his datapad.

The only indication he has of time passing is the movement of shadows over his room, and if he were paying attention, if he cared enough to look, he might’ve been concerned about how much he’s missing, about the work waiting for him, piling up on his desk in his office as he sits here, wasting time, let it flow past him like water in a stream. He’s never been one to waste time like this, having always been so conscious of the timer above his head, but for the first time in his life, he’s tired enough to be stagnant.

He wonders, lips quirking into a dry smile, if Adam would be pleased to find out that he’s taking a break for once.

They still love each other, after all. It was a difference in goals and mindsets that drove them apart, and Shiro can’t say that he’s angry at Adam. He’s just…

He’s mad at himself, if he’s being honest. He knows it’s fucked up of him to put his dream over the person he loves, and he never wanted to make Adam wait for him. He just wishes that he could see, understand, that Shiro isn’t ever going to get a chance like this in his life again, that he’s finally _got_ the chance against all odds, despite his failing body and the ticking clock hovering above his head, and he can’t just pass it up.

But Adam doesn’t understand. He never has.

It’s the same reason Shiro’s been driving off cliffs, the same reason Adam has stayed in the security of his teaching job at the Garrison. That difference has manifested here into something so fundamental and central to their identities that Shiro doesn’t know how they possibly could’ve missed it this entire time. Because he thinks he would’ve spent the rest of his life with Adam.

They were going to.

He’d fade, eventually, after the promise of forever. Adam would have to take care of him, and Shiro knows that he would’ve been perfectly content to do so, but Shiro would rather die in the most literal of senses than resign himself to that future.

Adam called him suicidal in their fight. Shiro doesn’t think that he’s right, but he doesn’t think that he’s wrong, either.

It’s better to go out blazing, Shiro thinks, rather than fizzle out like a burning pile of embers in the rain. He won’t die during Kerberos, he’s certain, but he doesn’t blame Adam for wanting to separate himself from him.

Shiro’s been causing them both nothing but pain, after all.

The sun has set. The room is dark. Shiro hasn’t eaten all day.

He doesn’t particularly care.

His eyes land on the keyboard.

Slowly, almost mechanically, Shiro gets to his feet and stands above the keys, looking down at them. Plastic shines up at him, black and white and covered in fingerprints. There’s a thin layer of dust on the edge of the music stand, and Shiro runs a fingertip lightly over it. His finger comes away grey.

Shiro closes his eyes, throat tight. His hand drops back to his side, teeth sinking into the lower part of his lip against a soft sound.

He won’t cry.

As if in a trance, both of his hands come back up to the keys, settling in a familiar position.

Debussy’s Arabesque No. 1.

It’s awfully cliche, Shiro thinks, as he his fingers graze each key, morning dewdrops on green blades of grass, to be playing the piano immediately after a breakup. It’s a cheap keyboard he got impulsively after Adam encouraged him to in a bout of grief, and he’s playing Debussy on it.

Because of course he’s playing Debussy after a breakup. Of fucking course.

He gets out of his head. Lets the music swallow him whole, relying exclusively on memory to push through. Fingers press down, lift back up, flying over the keys as he speeds up, slows down, does what he’s supposed to do and then some. Pouring his everything into the piece, all of the anger, the grief, the hurt, the things he wants to say but can’t, because Adam left him for a reason, and it’s too soon to tell Adam all of the things that he wants to say, so he’ll just wait after Kerberos, when they’ve both had more than enough time to cool off, and maybe Adam will have someone different by then, maybe Shiro will have moved on, too, and they can finally clear the air.

But Kerberos is soon. And it’s too soon to say anything to Adam, now.

So he plays the piano. Plastic doesn’t do the song any justice, and he knows that he could sound so much better on his grandfather’s old Steinway. He wonders what even happened to the piano after he died.

He realizes, maybe a bit too late, that he didn’t plug in his headphones. Not that he particularly cares at this point. If people hear, they hear. It’s not like most people know that this is Takashi Shirogane’s room, anyways.

He finishes the piece with a chord that feels too quiet, too soft, for how he and Adam ended, and keeps his hands on the keyboard. The chord falls away too soon, cuts off almost abruptly even when his fingers stay on the keys, because this is a cheap keyboard with recorded sounds, no heartstrings of its own to play.

The silence rings on.

___________________________

It’s two in the morning when there’s a knock at Shiro’s door. He rubs his eyes, squinting as he turns on the light, shuffling over to the door.

“What is--”

He stops. Matt is standing in front of him, fully dressed with a borderline maniacal glint in his eyes.

Shiro knows this look.

“What?” he asks warily. Matt looks him up and down, eyebrows raised.

“Wow,” he says. “If I’d known the gun show would be on today--”

“Matt,” Shiro says exasperatedly, his exhaustion giving him absolutely zero care in the world for any of this, and Matt gives him a shit-eating grin.

“Sorry,” he says, clearly not sorry. “I’ve got an idea. Come with me? I want to show you something.”

“It’s two in the morning.”

“Just trust me?”

Shiro stares at Matt for a moment with the kind of expression that only comes with the early morning and less than three hours of sleep. Finally, he heaves a sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Where?” he asks wearily, already turning to grab a shirt.

 _Where_ turns out to be the auditorium. Shiro’s been in here a few times, both as a cadet to listen to speeches and, later, to be the one to give those speeches to cadets. Matt dangles a key off of his index finger and unlocks the door with a flourish, turning to grin at Shiro.

“Come on,” he says, holding the door open. Shiro follows him inside cautiously, looking around with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. “I called in a favor. Got the key from a janitor who promised she wouldn’t bother us.”

“What--”

Matt flicks a switch by the door, and the lights turn on, filling the room with gold light. It’s a far cry from the harsh white lights of the rest of the Garrison, and Shiro can’t help but blink a few times in the warmth of it all.

“There,” says Matt, pointing to the stage. Shiro follows his finger, and _oh._

There’s a piano on the stage.

A real, wooden piano.

“Oh,” breathes Shiro. He turns to Matt with wide eyes, who’s looking at him with the most self-satisfied expression Shiro has ever seen on a person. He nudges his glasses up further on his nose, smirking.

“Apparently,” Matt drawls, folding his arms, “the Garrison’s auditorium used to be used for performances from people in the smaller towns surrounding us since they lacked a stage of this scale. I found the piano in the back. You can play, and the two of us can get treated to a five star show. We deserve it after all of the shit that’s been going on lately over Kerberos.”

“The two of us?” echoes Shiro, confused. Matt snaps his fingers.

Immediately, a familiar black-haired head pops up from behind a row of seats, and Shiro makes direct eye contact with a squinting, half-awake Keith, his hair messy and stuck up on one side.

“Hi,” says Keith. He glares at Matt. “That took you over an hour. You said it would take ten minutes.”

“Well, I’m here,” says Matt breezily. Keith grumbles something under his breath, slouching back in his seat. “Go on, Shiro. Play something.”

“Um,” says Shiro. His face is definitely bright red. “You didn’t have to--”

“You’ve been waxing poetry about your grandfather’s Steinway since I found out you could play the piano,” says Matt, giving him a light shove towards the stage. “You deserve to play on a real piano for once. Don’t tell me that you haven’t missed it.”

“I have,” admits Shiro.

“Then go up,” says Keith, like Shiro is being stupid. “You’re good at it. And we like hearing you play.”

Somehow, despite his protests, Shiro finds himself seated at the bench. Matt scrambles to sit next to Keith and attempts to rest an elbow on his shoulder, a gesture that Keith immediately slaps away, scowling without heat behind it.

Shiro drops a finger to middle C. It’s not terribly out of tune, surprisingly.

“Are you sure about this?” he calls down to Keith and Matt.

“Just play, you idiot,” shouts Matt. Keith whaps him over the head, and Shiro grins.

“If I’m terrible, just stop me,” he says. Before either of them can respond with the protests he can already hear beginning to build up, he puts his fingers on the keys.

Contrary to popular belief, Shiro is a show-off. He is a very competitive show-off. He didn’t get to where he is now with just talent and hard work. Much of it was spite, especially in response to what his doctors told him about his disease, about how he’d only have a few years to be in peak condition, about how maybe the Garrison wasn’t a good idea because it would be too much for him to handle.

Shiro is spiteful, and Shiro is a show-off. He secretly likes the spotlight, even if his ears get red and his hands get sweaty.

So, Shiro starts playing the third movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.

If he’s being honest, it’s not his best. He’s been working on this one for awhile, but there’s only so much he can do when his memory from before the Garrison wars with the sheet music he printed out, when he only ever has time late at night or early in the morning. But he’s banking on Matt and Keith knowing absolutely nothing about piano music, because this one is fast enough that he can sort of get away with any slip-ups as long as he doesn’t stop.

And he’s right.

Playing on a real piano is fucking _godly._ He hadn’t even realized just how much he missed it until his fingers hit real ivory, until they fly over the keys, until he realizes he can hear the vibrations of the strings in the piano, can almost feel wood hit metal strings with every press of a key. After months of recorded sounds on a plastic keyboard, the sounds he’s making now are clear as glass, crisp and clean and stunning.

The first time he played this song, younger than he is now, he thought it sounded triumphant at parts, and he plays as intensely as he can now, pouring as much emotion and passion into the notes as he can. But as he gets further into the piece, as he listens to the sounds spilling from the piano like they were just waiting to be unleashed, he starts to think that it sounds more like a song of anger. It’s a thunderstorm on top of a mountain, pouring rain and flashing lightning, dark clouds threatening to swallow the world whole, and Shiro knows about this, knows about the anger that accompanies grief, because he’s mourned for himself, for his grandfather, for the people who left when they found out his life was on a timer. 

This song is about death and destruction. It’s about the anger directed at those who refused to hold on any longer. It’s burying Prelude in E Minor under a stack of textbooks he hardly touches.

It’s not triumphant. Not in the slightest. He was young when he first learned this piece.

He’s not young anymore.

Shiro finishes the song with firm hands and loose shoulders, putting all of his energy into the final notes. When he’s done, panting slightly, hands coming down in fists to the tops of his thighs, he pauses for a moment, staring at the empty stand where sheet music should go.

A loud whistle and two sets of clapping snap him out of his trance. He looks to the seats.

Both Keith and Matt are on their feet, applauding loudly. Matt has his fingers in his mouth, attempting a taxi cab whistle, while Keith is grinning so widely that it looks like his face is about to split into two.

“Holy shit,” shouts Keith over Matt’s whistling. He shoves Matt, giving him a warning glare, before turning back to the stage. “That was-- _fuck,_ Shiro, that was incredible.”

Shiro ducks his head, smiling. His heart is still thumping widely in his chest from the sheer amount of emotion he poured into the piece, hands trembling slightly. “It wasn’t perfect,” he says. “But it sounded alright.”

“He’s an idiot,” Matt says to Keith, and Keith nods. “Fucking idiot, Shiro. That’s-- god, that was amazing.”

Shiro checks his watch. It’s half past two.

Technically, he should be getting as much sleep as he can before Kerberos. Resting, taking care of himself, all of that. Enjoying the feeling of a real mattress while he can.

But there aren’t any pianos in space.

“Want to hear another one?” Shiro asks, grinning.

___________________________

“You can have my keyboard,” Shiro tells Keith at the launch. He’d invited Adam, but his message had ultimately gone ignored. He doesn’t blame him. It doesn’t hurt as much as it should, maybe because he was expecting it. “It’s still in my room if they haven’t emptied it out.”

Technically, the launch was only supposed to be for family, but upon learning that Adam wouldn’t be coming, the Garrison had allowed Keith to come. Possibly to save face, possibly out of pity. In all honesty, Shiro doesn’t really care, because Keith is here, now, to see him off on what is probably going to be the most important day of his life.

His grandfather should’ve been here.

“I’ll be better than you when you get back,” says Keith, eyebrow cocked challengingly, and Shiro, despite the finality of the moment, can’t stop the grin from spreading across his face. “I’m serious. You’re going to be up there for a long time, old timer.”

“Get the left hand for Chopsticks down,” says Shiro, ruffling Keith’s hair, “and then we’ll talk.”

“I’m going to get good,” Keith says.

“Uh huh.”

“Seriously. I’ll be playing Mozart when you get back.”

“Mm. Twinkle Twinkle Little Star?”

Keith shoves him playfully, and Shiro laughs, bright and loud, the first real one he’s let out since Adam left.

“I’ll miss you,” he says.

“I’ll miss you, too,” says Keith softly, and he’s not looking at Shiro. His lips are pressed together, and he’s avoiding eye contact. Keith is taller now, older, and Shiro has never felt that fact more acutely than he does in this moment. He’s not leaving a child behind; he’s leaving a man, grown and capable.

Shiro still feels unfairly protective over him, though.

“It’ll be fast,” says Shiro. “Just a few months, really. I’ll be back in no time.”

Keith doesn’t respond, still not looking at him. Shiro reaches out, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey,” he says quietly, and Keith finally looks up. His eyes are slightly shiny, jaw clenched tight. “You’ll be fine. _I’ll_ be fine.”

“I’ll be here when you get back,” Keith says, voice surprisingly steady. “I promise, Shiro. I’m not going to leave. I’ll-- I’ll do better, here, when you’re gone, so I can stay. When you come back, I’ll be the first to greet you.”

Shiro smiles. “You’d better,” he says. “I’ll teach you some actual pieces you can play on the piano when I come back. We’ll have plenty of time, then.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Keith smiles. “Alright,” he says. “You’d better hurry up.”

Shiro hesitates for a moment, looking carefully at Keith, before pulling him into a hug. Keith wraps his arms around him immediately, head resting on his shoulder.

“Stay safe,” says Keith, voice wobbling dangerously. “Can’t have me just knowing how to play Chopsticks all of my life.”

“I’ll come back,” says Shiro. “I promise.”

___________________________

“Did you know that Shiro’s kind of a piano prodigy?”

Sam pauses, looking at Matt curiously. Shiro glares at Matt.

“We’re about to land on Kerberos,” says Shiro, “and you’re talking about how I can play the piano?”

“Hey,” says Matt, shrugging. “If this all goes to shit and we all blow up, I think Dad should die knowing that you’re a god at the piano.”

“Am not.”

“Do you compose?” asks Sam, turning his full attention to Shiro. His eyes are bright, just like how Matt’s get when he’s hooked on something. It’s a little unnerving, sometimes, how similar the two of them are. “I took a few classes in composition when I was younger. I think I might’ve gone into music if I never got into the Garrison.”

“I don’t,” Shiro says. Composition has never interested him. It feels too raw, like writing all of his feelings down in a notebook, or spilling everything to one of the therapists that his old school tried to hook him up with when they found out about his disease. He’s not sure that it’s worth it, putting all of that time into something that no one else will see. He’s got a timer, after all, and he might as well make real use out of the few years he’s got left to live.

“You should try,” says Sam. He smiles. “It’s different, playing something that you’ve created rather than someone else’s work.”

Shiro smiles back, but it’s a little forced. “Yeah,” he says. “Maybe.”

___________________________

They’re captured. By aliens.

Aliens. Fucking-- fucking aliens, and they’re purple and furry and huge, and it would be hilarious if it weren’t so damn terrifying. Because all three of them have been thrown into a cell on some gigantic warship, surrounded by other cells, and they’ve got no way of contacting anyone back on Earth.

They’re been here for hours. Maybe longer. There’s no way of knowing.

Sam is unconscious. It’s probably for the best. Matt is awake, but he’s got this vacant, haunted look in his eyes, like he’s still swimming in and out of consciousness.

Shiro doesn’t bother either of them.

He sits back against the wall, instead. They all tried screaming at first, tried shouting and pleading with their captors, but that only ever ended in punches to the face or words yelled right back at them in a language they couldn’t understand.

Shiro doesn’t dare close his eyes; hasn’t since one of the guards came in and practically kicked Matt awake. His hands curl into a familiar position on top of his thighs, like they’re positioning themselves on a piano. It’s habit.

Shiro almost wants to laugh.

He’s probably never going to see a piano again.

He curls his hands into fists and lets his head fall back against the wall, staring blankly at the opposite side of the cell.

___________________________

Once the match is done, Matt is gone.

They move Shiro to a different cell. He’s alone, this time. No Matt, no Sam.

He doesn’t know where either of them are. For all he knows, they’ll leave Matt to bleed out in some cell by himself from the wound Shiro gave him.

Shiro chokes on-- on something, his own breath or a sob. He looks down at his hands, covered in blood, and drops them to his legs.

He’s failed. He’s lost track of both of his teammates, of his best friend and his dad, and it’s unlikely he’ll ever see either of them again. And Shiro’s just essentially secured his fate, it seems, as a gladiator in the arena for Galra entertainment.

He’s so, so tired. Aching. Exhausted.

He wants to sleep. Needs to.

On the dirtied metal floor of his cell, Shiro fingers out the notes for Ravel’s Pavane pour une infante défunte.

He doesn’t sleep.

___________________________

His grandfather’s favorite piece was Chopin’s Prelude in E Minor, Op. 28 No. 4. He’s known this for years.

It starts playing in his head here.

It plays before and after matches. When they’re dragging him into the arena; when they’re hosing him off afterwards, icy cold water slamming into exposed skin. When he’s sitting in his cell, hollow and empty. When he’s dragged off to the druids for experiments that he doesn’t know anything about. He keeps himself sane by tapping out the fingerings to various pieces that have stayed in his head, by playing this song in his head when things get to be too much and he needs to go somewhere else.

He taps his fingers on the tops of his thighs as he stares at the wall, playing Prelude in E Minor for the first time since his grandfather died. And, also for the first time, sitting in a cell lightyears away from Earth with blood on his hands, Shiro lets himself mourn properly.

He makes peace with it, and he plays Prelude in E Minor.

___________________________

And then, they cut off his arm.

They cut off his arm.

They cut off his arm.

They cut off his--

He’s strapped to a table, rendered completely immobile, body pumped full of more drugs than is probably healthy, and his-- his arm--

His brain doesn’t feel like it’s working through the haze of drugs. All he can smell is blood, all he can _see_ is blood, staining his clothes, pooled around him, because for some goddamn reason, they didn’t even bother to clean up around him after they finished.

No, that’s not it. Because they’re not done. They’re still here. They’re still here, wielding shiny objects, faces covered, protective clothing completely soaked in red, _his_ red, blood that shouldn’t be where it is, but it is, because his arm is gone, and he doesn’t know where it is, but one of them is coming closer, and he tries to move his arm, but there’s no arm to move, just a stump at his shoulder, and he tries to scream in pain, because it’s too much, too much, too much, _too much,_ but it’s so much that he _can’t;_ all that comes out is what he thinks is a hoarse _please,_ and he’s not even sure what he’s asking for, but they’re still coming, and one of them, someone with yellow eyes that seem to glow as she bends down to look at him, is saying something about _this one being especially resilient; I was right to choose him; he will be a weapon to honor the empire,_ and he--

___________________________

It’s not until he’s made his first kill with his new arm that it occurs to him.

He won’t be able to play the piano anymore.

It’s stupid. It’s so fucking stupid, because it’s not like he was ever going to be able to play the piano again, not when he’s a prisoner of the Galra, when he’s _here,_ a slave to the arena, to the entertainment of others, but it’s-- it’s--

His hand _burned_ through his opponent’s chest. He punched out, and his fist sunk into and through the alien’s torso.

There’s no way he’s touching anyone with this hand anymore. Let alone a piano.

A choked sound escapes from between his lips. He can’t help it. It echoes a little in his cell.

His arm is gone.

His hand has gone with it.

___________________________

He can’t tap out fingerings anymore.

He could, technically. But his hand is metal, and it makes a horrible sound against the metal floor of his cell, feels awful against his skin. It’s a weapon, not something to be used for things as delicate as this.

But he holds on to the music. Chopin’s Nocturne in C Minor. Liszt’s Consolation No. 3. Chopin’s Prelude in E Minor. They stay in his head, playing over and over and over again until he thinks he might be going insane.

With how he’s stopped flinching at the sight and smell of blood, how he’s started killing so easily, maybe he already is.

___________________________

After a certain point, Shiro lets go of the music entirely. He’s not someone who deserves to escape the horrors that he commits anymore.

Weapons, monsters - they don’t have the delicacy to appreciate music, after all.

___________________________

He crash lands on Earth. Wakes up in Keith’s house in the desert with three teenagers that look at him with stars in their eyes.

Keith is taller. Older. Quieter, somehow.

Shiro walks out of the house, into the fresh morning air. He stands, looking out at a horizon he never thought he’d ever see again.

A hand slips onto his shoulder. He doesn’t need to look to know that it’s Keith. It’s a miracle that he doesn’t flinch away.

Conversation is quiet. Uncertain in the way that it’s never been between the two of them, but not in a bad way. Just… mindful of the gap of time that’s settled, waiting to be filled.

Shiro takes the first step.

“Did you ever finish learning how to play Chopsticks?”

Keith pauses, clearly not having expected that. Shiro waits.

“Yeah,” says Keith, and Shiro can hear the smile in his voice. “I did. I can do the left hand now.”

“Really?” Shiro asks. And, to his surprise, he can feel the corner of his own lip beginning to pull up. “I thought for sure you would’ve given up.”

“I never give up, Shiro,” says Keith, painfully earnest, and Shiro wonders how he ever could’ve forgotten how seriously Keith takes everything. “Especially not when it comes to you.”

Or maybe Shiro has been reading too little into things.

He turns to look at Keith, who keeps his hand on his shoulder. For a moment, the two of them just look at each other.

 _I missed you,_ Shiro wants to say. _I thought of you every day I was in there._

“Good to have you back,” says Keith.

“It’s good to be back,” Shiro says, because it’s true, and there’s nothing more to be said about it.

___________________________

Things are odd in the Castle. Shiro figures out several things about himself.

One: he remembers disturbingly little about his time in captivity. What he does remember mostly comes from nightmares that jolt him awake before the night cycle has ended, from flashbacks that occur at the most inopportune or seemingly innocuous of moments. And those are never good, and usually end in him throwing up late at night, disgusted with himself, wanting to pry his arm off of his body and let himself bleed out on the floor.

Two: he’s unable to sleep on anything that isn’t a cold, hard floor. Even a blanket throws him off. It’s hell on his back, and Shiro doesn’t know what he’s going to say as an excuse if someone bursts into his room on the rare occasion that he tries to brave the nightmares to sleep, and they find him on the floor instead of the perfectly good bed right beside him.

And three.

He still loves music.

___________________________

The planet they land on is called Drulade, a luscious planet with white stone buildings and two moons. It’s a sight to behold when they land that evening, and all of the Paladins rush to the front to gape at the view. Shiro doesn’t run, but he definitely doesn’t walk, either, to get a closer look.

Allura reminds them all about the rules of diplomacy, about civil behavior and proper etiquette, but Shiro’s pretty sure that the information goes right over everyone’s heads. Pidge is bouncing on the balls of their feet with their eagerness to get out, Lance fidgeting like he’s about to make a break for it, Hunk swiveling his head to look back out at the sky and then at Allura. Keith, too, is tense like he’s going to run out the second Allura lets them go.

Shiro is not above admitting that he’s impatient to get a move on, but he holds the others back enough to reign himself in, too.

“Two moons,” Pidge keeps saying. “Two moons! I never thought I’d ever see it.”

“It’s like something straight out of a movie,” Lance says, awed. “Star Wars was onto something, I guess.”

“It’s just science,” Pidge sniffs, a clear attempt to rile Lance up. It works.

“Man, Earth is so _boring,”_ Hunk laments over the sound of Lance’s indignant spluttering as they walk into the palace that the Druladans lead them into. “Why don’t we get two moons? Why don’t we get green skin?”

“You really want green skin?” Keith asks. “Really?”

“That’s not the point,” says Hunk, waving a hand in the air.

They enter the palace. Keith falls into step beside Shiro, the usual position he takes in unfamiliar situations, and Shiro is privately glad for the presence by his side. The palace is gorgeous, vines trailing over towering walls and curved ceilings that look like they could be made from white marble.

“This is gorgeous,” Pidge gushes. “It’s almost like those old temples on Earth. I’ve never had the chance to see anything like this before.”

One of their guides says something at that, and Shiro knows he should be listening, but his eyes have landed on an oddly familiar shape in the corner of his vision. He glances over and feels his eyes widen.

It’s a piano.

Well. No. It’s not a piano, because they’re on an alien planet, and that would be insane and ridiculous. But it _looks_ like a piano, like someone tried to draw it from memory and added a few embellishments and alterations of their own. The keys are basically the same, if not oddly shaped and colored, and although the format is different, the general idea is unmistakable.

This is a musical instrument with keys that can be pressed and strings that are hit for sound. It is, technically, a piano.

Shiro’s left hand twitches at his side.

“Ah,” Shiro hears the guide say, and he tears his eyes away from the not-piano to look at the rest of the group. They’ve all stopped walking for him, watching him curiously. Their Druladan guide has a curious look in their eyes, bright and excited. “Do you play the _vaeikuan,_ Black Paladin?”

“Is that what this is?” Shiro asks, looking back at the not-piano. He looks away again, giving them an embarrassed smile. “We’ve got something like that back on Earth called a piano. I just… thought I was seeing that instead.”

“You play the piano?” Lance asks, surprised. Shiro glances at Keith in time to see the look of amusement flash over his face. “Really? You don’t seem like the type.”

“I’m Asian,” Shiro says, lips quirking at the old joke. He shrugs. “My grandpa made me. I picked it up again for a bit after I came to the Garrison, but it’s… been awhile.”

He still remembers how he played Prelude in E Minor in captivity like it was his last tether to reality. He might not remember much, but he has never forgotten that.

“He’s really good,” Keith jumps in. He’s smiling, too, and Shiro sees the other Paladins exchange looks of surprise at the soft expression he gives Shiro. “Kept downplaying himself, though. He knew he was good, though. Just too humble to admit it.”

“Hey,” Shiro protests, laughing. “Do you know how many mistakes I made when I played for you and Matt in that auditorium? Because that was all bravado, hotshot.”

“You should play, now,” Allura encourages. “I’m sure it can’t be that different from this Earthen instrument.”

Shiro’s throat closes up almost immediately.

“That’s alright,” he says, tone suddenly tight and guarded, and he knows the others have sensed the abrupt shift. It’s impossible not to. His smile has shifted from warm to the one he uses most around the others, and he’s well aware of how much colder this smile seems after seeing his real one. There’s nothing he can do about it now, though. He’s suddenly hyper aware of his metal arm, the hand that erupts into glowing purple, the one he uses in battle, the one that could kill everyone in this room if he-- “We should move on.”

They move on.

Shiro keeps his metal hand tucked into his pocket for the rest of their stay.

Keith stays by his side the entire time.

___________________________

The astral plane is a lonely place.

There’s nothing to do. Nowhere to be. Shiro tries screaming at first, just like he did back in his cell with the Galra. It’s just as effective as it was back then.

No one hears him.

Keith leaves. Shiro screams, cries, tries so hard to breach into his head through the Black Lion’s consciousness, but it _doesn’t work,_ and then there’s a different man in his place, someone who looks just like him but isn’t him, doesn’t quite behave the same way. He’s colder, but it’s not like the others know that, because Shiro worked so hard to distance himself properly from everyone else that they have no way of knowing.

And Keith is gone.

None of them tried to stop him from leaving.

If there is one thing that Shiro hates the clone most for, it is that. Because he thinks he could’ve lived like this, knowing a perfectly adequate substitute was in his place, if not for Keith. If not for how the clone treated Keith before he left, if not for the breakdowns Keith only allowed himself to have when he was inside the Black Lion, when he was certain that no one would hear, except Shiro did, Shiro was there and couldn’t do anything, could only listen to Keith breathing his name out in wrecked sobs, and he--

Shiro keeps trying to come back. If only for Keith.

He has all of the time in the universe to spend, now, just thinking, but he refuses to think about why that is the case.

___________________________

For the first time since captivity, he starts tapping out the fingerings for piano pieces again.

He starts with Prelude in E Minor.

___________________________

“Since this is your consciousness,” Shiro says out loud one day, into the vast expanse of the astral plane, “can you put anything into this space?”

Black seems confused at first.

“Like,” Shiro says, then pauses. “If I asked for a piano, would you give it to me?”

_Piano?_

“It’s an instrument,” explains Shiro, and does his best to send an image of a piano to Black. She still doesn’t understand, so he pushes some of the memories he has towards her. His grandfather, playing on top of his hands for him on the Steinway. Time spent together in local music shops, fooling around on a keyboard while his grandfather paid for books. The lessons he took until he left for the Garrison, the keyboard he bought and put into his room there. Adam’s slack jaw, wide eyes, after hearing Shiro play for the first time. The piano that Matt and Keith heard him play on in the Garrison auditorium.

 _Oh,_ Black rumbles. _A piano._

“Yeah. Can you, like… manifest one in here?”

 _No,_ says Black. And then: _I’m sorry._

“That’s okay,” says Shiro, and he means it.

He doesn’t know if he’d be able to play, anyways.

___________________________

He does get the chance to think about Keith, eventually. If there’s one thing he learned during his captivity, other than how to kill, how blood smelled and felt on bare skin, and where the limits of his humanity were, it was that thoughts can only be held back for so long.

He realizes, perhaps too late, that he is in love with Keith Kogane.

He’s embarrassed that it takes the clone’s slack jaw and wide eyes at the sight of a two-years-older Keith showing up in a two-years-too-old Blade uniform that fits like a second skin to realize it. He’s also embarrassed that he, _this_ consciousness, had nearly the exact same reaction that the clone did at the sight of _muscles_ and _legs_ and _shoulders_ and _arms,_ that fiery look that somehow went from careless recklessness to cool, assured confidence.

Haggar couldn’t completely nail down his personality, apparently, but she got his attraction to Keith smack dab on the head.

And to think that she knew before he did.

It’s not that he didn’t love him before, because he did. He loved him differently, at first, obviously, nothing beyond the platonic at the Garrison. And he’s not sure when that shifted, when merely being drawn to Keith’s addicting fire, the blazing determination and fierce loyalty, a drive to do the right thing, the soft smiles and quiet kindness he guards behind scowls and seemingly cold demeanors, became something different. Maybe during Voltron. Maybe after Shiro died.

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if there even is a moment to pinpoint.

Maybe he’s been falling the whole time.

It feels like how Liszt’s Un Sospiro sounds. Something turning into something else, pushing and pulling, flowing with the tide. Coming together, falling apart. It feels inevitable, coming back to the same colors, the same tune, no matter how much things change, because they’ve gone to the farthest reaches of the universe, have seen planets fall and galaxies rise, have watched stars burn out lightyears before their light reaches Earth, and yet they’re still together. Still at each other’s sides, still breathing and burning and hurting, because so much has changed, right down to Shiro’s feelings about Keith, but this, this _dedication,_ their words to each other, the conversations that never seem difficult, the silences that never feel like too much - those have stayed the same. Their foundation is strong.

Shiro wouldn’t give it up for anything in the universe.

He doesn’t know how else his story would end. All he can see when he looks out into the vast, infinite depths of space is Keith. He doesn’t even know how to begin to put that feeling of inevitability, of certainty, of change and stagnancy and hurt and aching and that _shift,_ so slow he hardly even noticed until he’d already fallen, into words. It’s indescribable.

He thinks that Un Sospiro is a good place to start.

___________________________

All Shiro can hear during the fight at the clone facility is the first movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata _._

Not the third, the one that he played for Matt and Keith. The first one.

It’s a quiet song for the sight before him. But it aches.

Shiro has never felt so desperate in his life.

___________________________

_I love you._

___________________________

Keith brings him back. Hands on glass, a desperate sob wrenched from his throat.

Shiro wakes up in a body that isn’t his own, disoriented and overwhelmed and exhausted, to the sight of Keith leaning over him, pure, unfiltered relief on his face, violet eyes swimming with emotion.

He’s the most beautiful thing Shiro has ever seen.

___________________________

And then it’s all over.

Everything. The war is over. Everyone is out of the hospital. They’re all safe. All alive, by some miracle.

They’re all okay.

Shiro finds himself exploring the Atlas late at night, just like how he used to haunt the Castle when he couldn’t sleep. The Atlas is getting used to him, and he’s getting used to the Atlas. His nighttime wanderings become a sort of exercise between the two of them, albeit unintended, in which the Atlas will try and guess which place would help Shiro the most by rearranging hallways and flashing the emergency lights in the direction she wants him to go.

She takes him to a ballroom one day.

Shiro stands, gaping, in the doorway. He had no idea such a thing even existed on this ship, although he supposes that he should’ve, considering that this ship will be used for diplomatic events and intergalactic communications. It’s huge, the biggest thing Shiro’s seen on this ship so far.

But that’s not what he’s gaping at.

There’s a grand piano in the center of the room. A Steinway.

Shiro inhales shakily.

His feet carry him to the piano before he can truly process the sight, left hand skimming over the glossy black top. It’s covered in a light layer of dust, but it still shines bright under the lights.

He sits down at the bench and lifts the cover. A row of shining ivory keys greets him.

Shiro swallows. He can almost feel his grandfather’s presence, frail hands wrapping firmly around his wrists to guide them to the proper location, can almost hear his soft, lightly accented voice.

_Middle C, Takashi. No, that’s an E. Yes, right there._

Shiro looks down at his right hand. The Altean one.

It’s no longer a weapon meant for destruction. It doesn’t define him in the way his Galra arm did. It’s different, meant for him, to be used as an arm.

He flexes his fingers. He’ll play something simple, easy enough that he can’t possibly screw it up. Something quiet, peaceful.

Both hands come up to the keys, arranging themselves into the position for the piano arrangement of Bach’s Air.

It’s a peaceful, fitting tune. Should be, at least.

It doesn’t take him long to realize that he can’t play.

The clone body is-- it’s not used to these motions, even though the keys and the melody and harmonies are all in his head, because it’s technically never played before. His left hand is clumsy, and his right hand is--

The fingers are too big. He keeps hitting all the wrong notes.

Shiro stops playing.

His jaw is clenched tight, tighter than it’s ever been when he plays. His hands feel stiff, like they don’t want to move properly.

What might be the funniest part about all of this is that his Galra hand was a perfectly fine size to play the piano with.

Shiro doesn’t realize that he’s fallen forward a bit, head resting in his hand with his elbow propped up on the music stand, until his Altean hand is curled so tightly that he can actually feel it begin to shake. He forces himself to uncurl it, but even then, the fingers don’t move right.

He blinks a few times, hard, and swallows. He drops his head, taking a slow, deep breath.

“Shiro?”

Shiro doesn’t look up. But he knows the voice, and, just like the first time, he doesn’t flinch when a warm, familiar hand comes to rest on his shoulder. He relaxes into the touch a little.

“Keith,” he says, and internally curses himself for how shaky his voice comes out. He clears his throat, fully aware of how shiny his eyes must be with unspilled emotion. “What are you doing up? It’s late.”

“Could ask the same of you,” Keith says, squeezing his shoulder lightly. “You doing alright?”

Shiro turns to look, then. Keith’s eyebrows are slightly furrowed, dark hair framing pale, sharp features. His black sleep shirt is just slightly too big on him, exposing the sharp cut of his collarbone and the hint of muscles below.

It’s a devastating sight.

“I’m…” Shiro looks away, then. He looks down at his Altean hand, clenching it and unclenching it a few times. Keith’s hand moves from his shoulder to his back, rubbing there lightly.

“I can’t play,” he admits at last, looking up again. “The piano, I mean. I-- I tried, just now, but this body hasn’t-- hasn’t played before, and this fucking hand is too big; I keep missing the keys, and I--”

Shiro cut himself off. He can’t look at Keith.

Moments pass in silence. It’s not uncomfortable. Keith keeps his hand on his back, rubbing gently in soothing motions that have Shiro relaxing slowly without him even realizing it. The tension slowly, steadily drains out of him, until he’s almost forgotten what he was even worked up about in the first place. It’s then that Keith speaks.

“Scoot over,” he says softly, and Shiro does. Keith nudges him to the right, seating himself on Shiro’s left. “You remember Chopsticks, right?”

Shiro blinks. “Yeah,” he says, after a pause.

“Sick,” says Keith. He smiles. “I knew I learned the left hand for a reason. I’ll play left, you play right.”

“My hand,” Shiro says, maybe a bit more than desperate.

“You can get used to the keys,” says Keith. He looks up, meeting Shiro’s gaze, and his eyes are so intense, burning and blazing and _determined,_ that Shiro can do nothing but stare into them. “You just need practice, yeah?”

“Keith--”

“Never thought Takashi Shirogane would back down from a challenge.”

 _That_ shuts Shiro up, eyes narrowing in an almost playful way. Keith responds in turn, a sharp, cocky grin spreading over his face.

And they play.

It’s clumsy. It’s a fucking mess, actually, because it turns out that Keith has no sense of rhythm, and that combined with the keys Shiro keeps accidentally pressing with his too-big hand makes for the worst rendition of Chopsticks Shiro has ever heard in his life.

They’re both laughing hysterically by the end of it, Keith’s hand on Shiro’s shoulder for balance, Shiro slumped over with his forehead on the edge of the piano, both of them gasping for breath. Every time Shiro thinks he’s done laughing, one of them will snicker, and then they’re both in tears again.

They end up leaning on each other for support, Keith’s head pressed into Shiro’s shoulder, Shiro with his arm around Keith. They come down from their laughter, both struggling so hard to not set each other off again.

“I thought you said you knew the left hand,” Shiro manages to say. Keith hiccups.

“I did,” he says defensively. “Not my fault that we spent years in space afterwards.”

Shiro turns to tease him, pull the happiness of the moment on a little longer, but Keith turns his head at the same time. They end up much closer than Shiro anticipated, foreheads nearly touching.

It’s startling, especially after the laughter just moments ago, but Shiro doesn’t move away. Neither does Keith.

And the thing is, Shiro could pull away. He could laugh it off, apologize, and they would move on from it. Shiro knows this.

It’s what he’s been trying to do over the past few weeks. Since he came back, if he’s being honest, because he can’t stop thinking about the clone, what the clone did, how he, Shiro, fits into the whole equation. Keith was willing to die for him at the facility, and Shiro doesn’t-- doesn’t know what to do with that level of devotion, didn’t even know that Keith would _do_ that for him. He doesn’t deserve it.

He doesn’t deserve it.

He should pull away.

He doesn’t.

“Your eyes,” says Shiro without thinking, then stops.

“My eyes?” Keith prompts. He’s quiet, so quiet, but it sounds so loud in the space.

Shiro hesitates.

He wants to kiss him so badly.

“Then do it,” Keith breathes, and Shiro’s eyes go wide, realizing he must’ve said it out loud. Keith’s eyes are dark, black pupils taking up nearly all of the violet. “Do it, Takashi.”

It’s the sound of Shiro’s first name from Keith’s lips that almost makes him do it. He’s so close; all he’d have to do is lean forward.

“I don’t deserve you,” Shiro whispers instead. “You deserve the universe, Keith. I can’t give that to you. You deserve someone who can.”

“Fuck that,” Keith murmurs, and he really is so close, now; Shiro can feel the brush of his lips against his. “You don’t get to decide shit for me, you know. What do you want, Shiro?”

It’s not a question that needs to be asked. Not in the slightest.

“You,” says Shiro.

He’s not sure who leans forward. But it doesn’t matter.

The kiss is soft, gentle, delicate. It’s nothing like how Shiro has imagined it, what with the desperation that seems to lace all of their interactions and the fire that Keith has. He expected gasping breaths and clinging hands, but this is snowfall on a frozen lake, quiet and starlit, shining silver under the moon.

It’s like Un Sospiro. Inevitable.

They’ve got time, after all.

For the first time in his entire life, Shiro has time.

They break apart. It was only a few seconds, but it feels like it’s been hours with how hard the two of them are breathing. Shiro takes in the sight of Keith’s face, flushed pink, lips red and shiny, eyes wide like he can’t quite believe it.

Shiro can’t, either.

“Remind me,” Shiro breathes out, “to play Un Sospiro for you when I’ve got the whole piano thing sorted out.”

“Okay,” whispers Keith. His eyes glint with a familiar determination. “Can I kiss you again?”

 _“God,_ yes.”

Shiro’s the one to press back in this time, feeling Keith’s hand wrap around the back of his neck. It’s still slow, gentle, but the pulse of the tide is changing, the rhythm beginning to shift. Shiro smiles against Keith’s lips and feels Keith do the same.

And Shiro lets himself go.

___________________________

When Shiro goes to the storage room the Garrison shoved all of his belongings into, he doesn’t expect to find much. He’s not really hoping for anything, either.

It’s a surprise when he finds Prelude in E Minor _,_ the paper wrinkled and crumpled at the corners, laid flat between two of his textbooks.

His keyboard isn’t there. But his leather jacket is, so he takes the music and his jacket, along with a few books, and rides his hoverbike out to Keith’s house in the desert. Keith’s already waiting for him outside.

“My keyboard wasn’t there,” Shiro says, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice. “I found this, though. It’s Chopin.”

“Your keyboard?” Keith looks confused. “You told me I could take it.”

For a moment, Shiro just stares.

“It’s here?” he asks. “Like… _here?”_

Keith grins. “You said I could take it,” he says again. “So I took it when they kicked me out. It was an awkward hoverbike ride, I’ll say that.”

“Oh my god,” Shiro says. He’s smiling almost too widely, he knows, but he can’t really care when Keith is smiling just as big. “Can I--”

“It’s yours,” Keith says by way of answer, and he steps aside to let him inside.

The house is cleaner. Keith’s been tidying up, clearly, taking care of the mess that a year of grief laid upon him. They haven’t had time to properly talk about Kerberos yet. But they will.

Shiro finds the keyboard almost immediately.

It’s as horrible as he remembers. Plastic, covered in dust that never seems to go away. It creaks a little when he pushes it lightly.

Shiro sets the music on top of the stand. Prelude in E Minor stares up at him.

“You okay?” Keith asks softly, and Shiro realizes that he’s been standing here for probably a bit too long. Shiro looks away, meeting Keith’s gaze.

“Yeah,” he says, then smiles. “Yeah, I… I think I am.”

And he is.

**Author's Note:**

> full list of all songs, in order of appearance, mentioned in this fic - excluding chopsticks lmao: (would highly suggest listening to at least a few of these to get the most out of this fic, but it's obviously up to you!)
> 
> Chopin's [Prelude in E Minor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ef-4Bv5Ng0w)  
> Beethoven's [Für Elise](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_mVW8tgGY_w)  
> Fauré’s [Claire de lune, Op. 46, No. 2.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZGf0w0zghFI)  
> Debussy's [Arabesque No. 1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yh36PaE-Pf0)  
> Beethoven's [Moonlight Sonata, Mvt. 3](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zucBfXpCA6s)  
> Ravel's [Pavane pour une infante défunte](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q9tcHoD6r0c)  
> Chopin's [Nocturne in C Minor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xIqx0MOsNfo)  
> Liszt's [Consolation No. 3](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ONWdCvFHnuA)  
> Liszt's [Un Sospiro](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L42sbnQxEmw)  
> Beethoven's [Moonlight Sonata Mvt. 1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ea8oX-A8swk)  
> Bach's [Air (arranged by Siloti)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xDWG9SrB4io)
> 
> holy fuck that took forever. i stg if any of those links are incorrect i'm going to die--
> 
> god. i could talk for hours about why i chose each song.
> 
> leave a comment if you enjoyed and lmk your thoughts!
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/aerixlee) || [tumblr](https://aerixlee.tumblr.com/) (am more active on twitter for vld)


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